Eyes of Emerald Green
by babybluecas
Summary: Meg and Castiel have been perfectly happy and settled together in their apple pie life. But something changes the moment Castiel comes home bearing perfectly innocuous news: there's a new teller at the local bank. Soon, the name 'Dean' becomes a permanent fixture in their home and Meg's totally not jealous of the homewrecker who swept Castiel off his feet.


The cowboy boots are beautiful, shiny, natural leather and everything Meg's been drooling over for the last few days.

They're also trouble, but Meg doesn't know that yet.

For now, she happily adds them to the cart and types in the long line of numbers off the credit card. Grinning to herself like some freakin' child and humming an old country song that's been stuck in her head, she doesn't hear the footsteps approaching her from behind.

"Is that my credit card?"

Castiel's low voice booming right behind her nearly makes her jump out of her seat and her skin. Guilty as charged. In a momentary panic, she flails her hand as she's trying to decide between shoving the bright blue card under the laptop or invent a magic card trick that involves flicking the card across the room.

In the end, the card remains in her palm, awkward and incriminatory.

"Maybe?" she tries, mustering the most innocent tone.

She can practically hear Castiel rolling his eyes. Thankfully, he decides he's got other things to be annoyed about than Meg using his credit card, which, by the way, totally isn't because she maxed out hers.

"The one evening I get you free at home," Castiel grumbles, "and you're sitting on your laptop instead on my lap's top?"

His terrible pun falls flat, and rightfully so. Meg can only be thankful that Castiel is the deadpan kind of a joker, not the finger guns kind. Or worse.

As is, he only clears his throat to cover the awkward silence and promptly changes the topic, so that they can both pretend that never happened and move on.

"What are you buying?"

She bends the screen back to show him the boots. She might have kind of wanted them to be a surprise. It's not like Castiel ever checks his payments so he wouldn't know. But whatever, this might just be worth it.

Castiel rests his chin on top of her head as he takes a look at the screen.

"It's the middle of the summer. A little too hot for high boots, don't you think?"

Now it's Meg's turn to roll her eyes. "They're cowboy boots, you ignorant fool. Fashionable any time of year."

"You're not a cowboy…or cowgirl. This is California, not Texas."

"I don't care that you don't like them, Castiel."

"I never said I don't like them," Castiel protests without much fire in it. But fire Meg knows how to light up in her sweet Castiel.

"Good," she says, turning in her seat to face him and climbing to her knees. She's being a tease, with her palm cupping Castiel's chin, her brow raised, her voice coaxing, a sly smile on her lips. "And you're gonna like them even more when you see me in them." She pulls him even closer, her lips right by Castiel's ear as she whispers seductively, "and nothing else."

It works, of course it does. Castiel's hands slide down her waist.

"Oh, I like them already," Castiel purrs, his thumb finding the band of Meg's jeans, then slipping underneath it. "But I don't think I can wait until they get here."

"Well then," Meg starts, laying slow kisses along Castiel's jaw, "I guess we're gonna have to do without the boots." She reaches his lips, kisses them deep and hot but pulls away all too quickly. With a raised eyebrow, she looks him in the eyes, in a challenge. "You think you can manage that?"

With a quick motion, Castiel sweeps her off her chair and into his arms. She wraps her legs around his waist and lets him carry her out of the living room. "I'm sure I'll manage."

He doesn't stop nor does he let her down until they're in the bedroom. There, he lets her down on the bed, gentleman that he is, clambers on it right behind her. He's n top of her, fingers pulling at the hem of her t-shirt, as hers stumble on the buttons of his shirt.

The kiss only breaks when he pulls her shirt over her head, but his lips never return. Instead they travel down, down her throat, his five o'clock scratching her skin, his tongue soothing it.

"Your shirt," Meg orders, yanking at the fabric to slip it off his shoulders.

Castiel grunts and gets rid of the annoyance as soon as he can. The undershirt and his pants follow suit, and then he's back to kissing her, loving her, cherishing every inch of her body, craving it like a starved man, blessing it like an angel. He knows exactly how to touch her, how to rock their bodies into the right rhythm.

He loves her sweetly, he loves her feverishly, he does it so well. And when it's done, they fall apart, with their fingers interlaced, their breathing heavy, filling the dull silence of their four walls.

She could fall asleep right there and then, by his side. But she only waits until his eyes are shut, his breathing evens out and she wills herself to crawl out of the warmth of the bed.

Castiel's hand catches hers. "Going to work?"

"No, I'm just not sleepy," she says, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. "But you should sleep, my early bird."

Castiel accepts her answer and sinks his head back to his pillow.

Meg enters the sharp light of the bathroom. This isn't her time yet, though soon, when the water isn't running, she can hear Cas's snoring. How he manages to fall asleep so quickly is beyond her. Even at her most tired, it takes a good ten minutes to even settle properly to begin to dream of sleeping. And then her thoughts start to climb out of the nooks and crannies of her brain and swirl in circles like possessed inside her skull 'til the late night hours.

She takes a long hot shower, hoping for the comfort he gave up on, but she knows nothing can compare to Castiel's arms wrapped around her. She's got a good few hours to lose, and it might be her last free evening for a while. She planned to make the most of it, which basically meant a movie in bed, or a book. Or the P.I. manual she's been trying to memorize for the fast approaching exam.

But as she leaves the bathroom, her body wrapped in her soft PJs, the tips of her hair still wet, the sight of Castiel's peaceful face, his arm splayed out across her pillow, as if it's been waiting for her, draws her in and she's too weak to ignore it. The phone screen on low light and a lazy scroll through her socials is gonna have to be enough, until her messed up circadian rhythm comes to claim her.

She slips under the cover, tossing her hair over the pillow, her head resting in the crook of Castiel's elbow. As if on command, without breaking his sleep, he rolls closer to her, wrapping his other arm around her and there's no escape for her now.

It must be another hour or so when her eyelids become too lazy to stay open, so she drops her phone on the nightstand and lets the steady rhythm of Castiel's breathing guide her to sleep.

Maybe it would have worked eventually, if the rhythm didn't falter, followed by mumbled, hardly intelligible words.

"I can't," Castiel says, right by her ear, the crack in his voice close to a sob. "I'm just a baby elephant."

Meg has to cover her mouth tightly not to burst out laughing, but she can't help the muffled chuckle that still escapes. She takes a deep breath and regains her composure. There's just too much at stake here. Waking him up right now is the last thing she wants to do. Then she'd have too much to explain, some innocent lie to make up about a silly thing she remembered or dreamed about.

She never told him about his sleep-talking. It's his mouth making the words up but they're her little secret. She'd hate for him to get self-conscious about it or something and try to stay vigilant at night and never talk those silly nothings, those ridiculous glimpses into his dreamland.

Not to be dramatic, but if he never spoke another word in his sleep, it would be a disaster.

"Shhh," she coos, twisting her head around to take a look at the frown on his face. She reaches over to gently stroke the hair on Castiel's temple. With her softest voice, she soothes him. "You can do whatever you put your mind to, baby elephant."

Her assurance helps to bring back a smile on his lips.

"'Course I can," Castiel mutters proudly before drifting back to his sound sleep and leaving Meg with a stupid, fuzzy feeling in her chest only Castiel can bring her.

That guy has really turned her into a softie, and she wouldn't want it any other way.

Steam rises from the strong black coffee on the desk. Truth be told, Meg would prefer a glass of Jack Daniels and a cigar, if only for the cool noir aesthetics, but she'll have to do with what she's got.

And what she's got is a thin manila folder with some schmuck's name on it.

Meg calls 'cheating' before she even flips the file open. There's not much more going on around than that. She begins to think that maybe becoming a private investigator wasn't the most fortunate job choice in this sort of town. Or maybe the town wasn't the right choice for the job.

But she sure as hell is not proposing a move to Los Angeles or some other big city to Castiel. She probably would have loved it at a different time in her life. Maybe she will, one day. For now she's trying to get back her edge, which small town life dulled to the bone.

The satisfaction of catching the filthy cheaters red-handed will have to be enough for now and it sure _will_ be a satisfaction. She might have a fair share of bad deeds and poor choices on her conscience, but cheating has always been the one thing she wouldn't do nor forgive.

She starts her homework with reading through everything there is to read about the case, back to back; every note, every scrap of paper. Oh, he's cheating, alright. The missing money, the so-called overtime, the meetings in the skeevy motel. The thing, though, is that the guy is just careful enough not to hand them the definite proof. And if the wife's to score all the money and the house, just as she deserves, they need something that will stand in family court.

And by they, she means herself, because getting some extra points in the boss's book from the start would for sure do her good.

She needs to find a way to catch the cheater without the curtains in front of the windows meticulously closed, as he's always sure to do as soon as he enters the motel room with his long-legged mistress - or a business partner, as he'd certainly call her. Or she would have to catch him spending his withdrawn cash on the jewelry and lingerie that his wife never gets, not even for anniversaries or birthdays. Because those gifts have to end somewhere and it ain't for his mommy.

She needs something, anything, but she doesn't have or know how to get to it, yet.

But there has to be something, she knows it. There must be a way. And if there's a chance this is not a real-real case, but one of Abby Donn's legendary newbie tests (because, really, in what world would the boss ask her of all people as a pair of fresh eyes?), that something is already right in front of her, hidden in plain sight. She just needs to connect the dots.

The dots that she doesn't see yet.

Half an hour later, she figures her fresh eyes need their own fresh eyes.

She creates a neat murder board in the living room, driving the thumbtacks straight into the ugly, old wallpaper that's needed an upgrade for the last five years, anyway. She's dug a spool of thick red thread from the kitchen drawer, curling its loose end around the tip of her finger as her gaze glides over the papers, searching for the starting point.

For a moment she thinks she's almost got something and she moves toward the wall to begin spreading out a proper spider web on it, when the strumming jingle coming from the pocket of her jeans steals the thought away. With a low growl, she fishes the phone out and drops it screen-down on the couch to silence it. Distractions are the last thing she needs right now.

Another half an hour of that and she finds herself with her legs sticking up into the air, her hair swiping the floor as her head hangs down from the seat of the couch. It's all been freakin' pointless and, frankly, she might be close to passing out from all the blood in her head.

The door creaking open startles her, but before she can roll off the couch and take a protective stance with anything heavy she can grasp on her way, Castiel appears in the living room, all pinkish, slightly out of breath and upside down.

"Meg, is my—? he begins, but the unusual view he finds before him takes him aback, though Meg's not sure if it's the new wall decoration or her humble self (getting dizzy from the blood flooding her brain), as his eyes dart back and forth between the two. He shakes himself out of it soon enough to ask her the very important question he ran all the way here to ask. "Is my credit card here somewhere?"

Oh. Right.

Meg scrunches up her face in a 'boy, did I mess up' grimace, as she rolls over to her butt, her black curls falling all over her face. She makes the mistake of trying to stand up right away to go over to the shelf where she must have moved the card to as she was setting up her office. Now she does black out for a hot second, but Castiel catches her just in time, helps her sit down, his free hand pushing her hair away.

"I'm alright, I'm alright," she blurts out, blinking rapidly and taking a mental note of never hopping on that wild ride again.

But it's not a concern for her that's painted on Castiel's face, is it?

"It's on the shelf," she tells him, to which he at last relaxes and leaves her side to find it—just to make sure. "You didn't let me put it back yesterday, remember?"

There's no better self defence than shifting the blame, she heard. Or something like that.

"Got it," Castiel announces, carrying the blue piece of plastic between his fingers. "Why didn't you pick up the phone? I wasn't sure I didn't lose it. Dean said to make sure before I cancel the card."

"Oh, you called?" Meg chirps innocently, as she reaches for the phone. She bites her lip. Sure, the phone rang and she never even checked it, though she should have guessed. Five incoming calls that went straight to the voicemail is not what she expected. "Sorry, I was digging into the—" She waves her hand at the murder board. "Wait—" she realizes. "Who the hell is Dean?" Because it's sure none of Castiel coworkers or students she's ever heard of.

She had no way of knowing, the moment she asked that question, how fateful it would be and how much she'd come to regret it.

"Dean's the new teller in our bank. Moved here from Michigan to be close to his brother who's got into Stanford."

Meg raises an eyebrow. That is too much information to know about a random new guy who is sitting behind the cash desk. She itches to point it out, but she's got much more important matters to return to.

"Alright." She shrugs, her eyes and attention back to her little murder board. "Good thing you didn't cancel it."

"I'd hate to go through all the trouble of getting a new one," Castiel mutters, slipping his jacket off. He hangs it on the back of the nearest chair and approaches the board. "Maybe I could help you?"

She probably—definitely—shouldn't be giving him any of the information, but she's kinda desperate, so she brings him up to speed and leaves the problem to him. As Castiel goes through all the files with his attention to detail and analytic brain, Meg's catching up with all that she's missed while her phone was put away.

"I feel like some people really should read up on polyamory," Castiel muses, but after a pause he adds, "but then, it could put you out of the job."

What he doesn't say is that he'd probably be happy about it. He never liked the idea of her changing jobs to anything other than a nine to five.

"Nah, some assholes are only in it for the thrill," Meg replies. It's only been a few weeks and she's already seen too many of those assholes to know no kind of openness could cure what they got, 'cause what they got is being a dick. "Think they'd be cool with their wives having sex with other guys?"

"Touché."

Regarding the case, he doesn't end up having much to offer but for an arm thrown around Meg, as he slumps into the couch beside her.

"So now you're just gonna sit here and listen to the poor cogs in my brain getting fried?"

"I have nothing better to do than spend time with you, even if silent."

"Uh-uh," Meg mumbles, not really listening to his cheesiness.

Her mind's already orbiting solely around the Instagram post she just found. The big, ole cheater wasn't as careful as he thought he was and forgot to instruct his mistress not to ever, ever publish pictures with the gorgeous emerald bracelet visible, even if only in the background.

It's not that much but it is something to go on. If she's lucky, she might trace it back to the jewelry store it came from.

Cas was right, she really should have picked up the phone earlier.

She springs off the couch, letting Castiel's arm drop limply. She's got her shoes on in no time.

"Sorry, Castiel. I gotta go!" she says to Castiel's disgruntled face and with that, she rushes off to see her boss. She's so gonna score herself some extra points.

—

The exquisite smell of chili con carne reached Meg all the way by the bathroom door as soon as she opened it, but she refuses to believe her nose. Barefoot, with the t-shirt sticking to her wet body, she dashes to the kitchen, to find the table set; white cloth, wine bottle, candles and all. But most importantly, there it is, the world's best meal lazily bubbling in the pot.

She doesn't have time to consider how underdressed she is for a meal so fancy, as she rushes past the table and reaches the stove.

"No way!" she nearly squeals and drives her face into the fragrant steam, her mouth watering. "It's not our anniversary or something else I forgot, is it?"

"It's not," Castiel replies, gently pushing Meg away from the pot so that he can pour chili onto the plates. Impatient, she takes her seat at the table and waits, the spoon in her fist. "But you just closed the first case you cracked yourself, so I thought we should celebrate it."

"Aww, you're so sweet," she says, itching to dig into the dish as soon as Castiel lays it before her, but she's still got enough restrain to wait for him. "But it wasn't even my case and I was just lucky that—"

"Since when are you, Meg, so humble?" Castiel cuts her off, as he sits down on the other side of the table.

Touché. She might not be so deserving of the praise but the fact that her more experienced colleagues didn't catch the bracelet before her does score her some points.

Plus, yeah, it's so not like her to be humble.

"Alright, I totally aced it," she admits with a cheeky grin. Then, the torture finally ends and she drives the fork into the thick, meaty goodness. As soon as it lands on her tongue, the amazing flavor engulfs her every last taste bud and she can't hold back an obnoxious moan. "And you"—she says between chewing and moaning—"you know how to send a girl straight to heaven, Clarence."

"In theory I do, but I'd rather not do that to you," Castiel deadpans, pouring red wine into glasses. How he manages to keep himself from eating his own near-divine creation is beyond her.

"It's spicier than the last time," she notices. "I like it."

"You do?" he asks with a bright smile. "I was a bit wary, but I took Dean's advice and added some jalapeño."

Meg narrows her eyes at him. "Dean who?" Castiel's got no Dean friends that she knows of, but this feels like a deja vu. And then it hits her. "The bank teller?"

The words sound dumb as they leave her mouth. Makes no sense for Castiel to chat about cooking when he was lowkey panicked about the card. Unless—

"I was passing by and thought I'd tell him I found the card and he happened to have a break so we chatted a little."

Meg has no idea what to think about it so she decides not to think about it at all and instead focus on the amazing dish she can't stop shoving into her mouth.

"I'll have to get cracking on the next case if this is the reward I'm getting."

Castiel raises an eyebrow at her but the curl in the corner of his mouth eases the blow as he says, "I never said it's gonna happen every time. I can't spoil you too much."

That cools down Meg's excitement, slightly, but she's not gonna let her con carne cool down as well.

She's never known Castiel to be a grand gesture kind of guy, at least not with matters as minor as her finding a clue in a case that wasn't even hers—though she sure does appreciate him showing some effort in supporting her work.

Yet, here they are, in the orange glow of candle light, practically on a fancy date, for the first time in a while. And it's so damn nice, even as the topic runs out and the only sound filling the air is the clatter of their spoons on the plates.

"Any news on that math contest of yours?" Meg asks, hoping it's not something he already told her a week ago when she wasn't paying attention. "Did Alfie get in?"

Castiel visibly perks up at the new subject. "He did, yes. Which is very exciting."

"I can see that." Meg lifts her glass to raise a toast. She shouldn't really be drinking today, but it's just a glass of wine, in an hour or two she should be good to drive. "To our professional successes."

"Alfie's a smart kid but I might have to give him a hand," Castiel continues. "I'll do my best to schedule the extra lessons in my—"

The ring of a doorbell cuts into his words.

"Are you expecting anyone?" Castiel asks, wiping his mouth and about to get up but Meg beats him to it.

"Hopefully," she calls, already halfway through the living room.

The first thing she sees when she opens the door is a cardboard box wrapped in a ton of tape. The very sight makes her heart flutter. The delivery girl gives her service smile number five and hands it to Meg along with the pad for her to sign.

She has barely put the box on the coffee table before she digs into it, slicing through the tape with the nearest sharp object she can find. She cuts and pokes and tears at the cardboard, ignoring the godawful sounds and Castiel's curious stare from the kitchen door.

With huge effort she manages to hold back a very unbecoming squeak as the black leather reveals itself to her. With the boots in her hand, she plops down on the armchair and thrusts her feet into one, then the other. They slip in with an ease of Cinderella's tiny feet into Cinderella's glass slippers.

"How do you like them?" she asks, jumping off her seat, one hand on her hip, and preening in front of Castiel like a little miss America's Next Top Cowgirl. Her fiery gaze dares Castiel to say anything less than 'I love them,' but her playful smile says a different thing entirely. "As hot as you expected?"

"Hmmm." Castiel takes his sweet time considering his answer, as he moves closer. "I'm not sure. There are all those other clothes on you that are too distracting," the sly dog says, at last.

Meg bites her lip. She'd be totally down for a little special strip tease special right here right now. "You're gonna have to wait 'til later for that," she says with a heavy heart, throwing her arms around his neck. "But I'll make it worth the wait."

"Are you sure?" Castiel's firm hands slide down to her waist, pulling her body closer 'til she can tell the charm of the boots worked better than she would have guessed. "'Cause we've got a good few hours to kill, still."

Meg's got research to do before she leaves, important stuff. Very important. Threat of being let go if she doesn't do it important. Except—

Except it's hard to worry about research with Castiel's mouth on her throat, with his fingers working their way down, down… A quickie on their rustic armchair sure ain't gonna cost her more than this date has up until now.

Then she'll do her research, and she'll be good to go—

"Wait—" She pulls away as she realizes something. "What do you mean a few hours to kill?"

"That's another surprise," Castiel says with a self-complacent smile and leans again for a kiss. "Later."

"No," she says, keeping him at a distance. "Now."

Castiel groans in discontent but complies. "I'm taking you to the movies. That new comedy you wanted to see."

Oh Castiel, always with the bad timing and the kicked puppy face waiting to happen.

Meg blows out the air and pulls a face that Castiel understands it without words.

Still, he asks, "What is it?"

"I can't."

"Why?"

"I've got a stakeout today. Wish you had asked me first."

But there's no kicked puppy face. Instead, Castiel throws his head back in annoyance. "Can't you postpone it until tomorrow? I already got the tickets."

"You should have asked me before you bought them," Meg repeats, firmer. "How do you imagine I postpone it? What, I come up to the guy like 'hey asshole, any chance you could pretend to have a client meeting while you fuck your side piece tomorrow? Pretty please'?"

"Exactly! He's just a cheater. It's not like you're tracking a serial killer."

Meg clenches her jaw. It was always just a matter of time 'til the words finally spilled out of Castiel's mouth. But how could she guess taking up a job she actually enjoys instead of her old boring as fuck office work would lead them here.

"Oh, so my job isn't important because I'm not sculpting young minds like you?"

"Come on, Meg. You know that's not what I meant."

"Well, it sure sounded like it!" Her voice rises, she can't hold it back. "You don't respect my job because—Well, why exactly? 'Cause I sure as hell don't get it!"

"Wanna know why?" Cas says, trying to calm himself down, but failing. The quiver of his lips gives him away. "'Cause you run around town, wait outside seedy motels and snap pictures of old pricks fucking their lovers and—" He bites down his tongue but it's too late. She's not gonna let it slide.

"And what? What else is so disgusting about my job? Let's hear it!"

Castiel breathes heavily but the anger in his eyes drowns in resignation. "You're hardly ever home."

Now, Meg has to laugh at that. "You're not here when I'm home, either. When I make you dinner and wash your shirts." The job might not be exactly what she hoped it'd be, but she actually has fun doing it. And most ironically, it takes up less of her time than a nine-to-five. "You know what, Cas? Get a fucking hobby. I'm not your entertainment system."

"Entert—what?" Castiel looks like he got punched in the face. "I love you. And I miss spending time with you, that's all."

His words don't change much. He's already said what he said and Meg's done with this conversation. She's about to turn on her heel and storm out, when Castiel stops her.

"Wait, please. I'm sorry," he says, his tone perfectly restrained and calm. He takes a deep breath, palms lifted in a placating gesture. "I don't wanna ruin this day. It's just—Dean said going to the movies is a fun way to celebrate and I didn't think about asking you."

She almost, almost falls for it yet again, but that name, 'Dean', has managed to nestle itself somewhere at the back of her mind, grating in a way she can't put her finger on. She'd be fine going the rest of her life without hearing it again.

And well, at least this Dean has got a respectable job, doesn't he?

"Oh, really? Dean told you that?" she blurts out, fuming. "Then why don't you take your precious Dean out to the movies?"

With that, she leaves the room, but behind her, as she's trying to ease her fury, she can hear Castiel's confused tone, saying, "But Dean doesn't like chick flicks."

—

They make up and make out in the warm glow of candle light, late that night, among the petals Castiel showers Meg with—the remorseful sap that he is. He strips her bare and kisses the words of apology into her skin. And she takes them and she takes him in.

All's forgiven 'cause that's how they roll. Beautifully reconciled they fall asleep in each other's embrace. At least he does.

Meg's eyes never close, tracing the lines on Castiel's face, the game of shadows, shifting with every smallest tick. She watches the dreams burst behind his eyelids, listens for the sounds slipping out of his mouth to shape into his silly phrases, but none come.

Restless and hot, she untangles herself from Castiel's hold and slips out of bed. Castiel's gesture was nice but made a hell of a mess, with petals scattered across the floor, along with their clothes. And something else, a white rectangle lying near Castiel's jeans.

She is overcome with curiosity and picks it up. It's a piece of paper. One of the tickets to the movies. No—a ticket stub. Just one.

Meg casts a long look at Castiel, still sleeping innocently, and bites her lip.

Her own stupid, stupid words from earlier bombard her mind, but she knows the thought's ridiculous. Castiel wouldn't do it. Dean's just a guy from the bank. And he doesn't even like chick flicks.

Meg slips the stub into her drawer in the night stand. She's gonna hold on to it for now. Just in case.

—

Dean's last name is Winchester—like the rifle. When he was six, his father took him shooting with a rifle like that. When he managed to knock off all ten cans in one go, he found himself strangely proud of his name.

Dean loves the California heat, after the winter in Great Lakes, and Meg makes a mental note not to grumble to Castiel about the merciless sun cramping her rock chick vibe. And Dean could kill for a pie, which Meg learns upon bringing Castiel his favorite chocolate cake just to be an awesome girlfriend.

She doesn't need a confirmation that Dean's favorite band is Led Zeppelin when she comes home to their albums playing loudly for hours, but she still gets it. And she launches their household into a music war with a rather poor choice of Europop from the mid 00s. She might have been desperate.

But the final straw comes when her car doesn't start, just as she's in too much hurry to take a glance under the hood. She has to beg Ruby to pick her up and drive her downtown. Later that evening, she quickly regrets not biting her tongue about it. What she gets in return is an unsolicited offer of Dean—the one, true muscle car engine aficionado—looking into it. As if Meg wasn't perfectly capable of taking care of her own vehicle.

And then she also learns that Dean drives a black '67 Chevy Impala he got after his father died—oh, and a thing or two about Dean's abandonment issues, as well.

Soon enough Dean's gonna start popping out of the fridge in the morning and creep under her bed like a boogeyman at night.

"I swear it's like he read the dude's entire autobiography, and memorized it," Meg complains, carefully sizing up the strawberry cocktail she hasn't touched since the waitress set it on the table. She can't swat away the nagging idea that maybe Dean loves strawberry cocktails too.

"You're reading too much into it," Ruby says, mercifully hiding the pity in her voice. "It's good that our old Castiel has a new friend," she adds, flicking a strand of her blonde hair over her shoulder, as the waitress returns with desserts. "You always say Balthazar's a bad influence on him."

And lives far away, thankfully.

"That's different. Balth's practically his brother."

"And Dean is…?"

"A homewrecker," Meg answers, without a pause.

Ruby nearly chokes on her whipped cream as she bursts into laughter.

"What? You think he's gonna steal your man?"

Meg rolls her eyes. "Thanks. There's nothing quite like your best friend taking a piss at your concerns," she says, not sparing the sarcasm.

She already feels ridiculous as is. She knows Castiel. And she knows that they're good together, even if their altering shifts leave them little time for each other's company. Still, she can't shake the worry. Maybe Dean caught him at a perfect time, maybe he's got a smile like a breath of fresh air to their years-long routine.

Ruby's palm lands on Meg's, squeezes it tightly.

"Come on, we're talking _Castiel,_" Ruby says it as if the very name explained everything. "Mister oblivious who wouldn't recognize flirting if it french kissed him and stole his wallet."

"I stand by my actions." Meg smirks at the memory of Castiel's passionate reciprocation, his hand in her hair, her back against the wall. But the smile drops as Castiel's imagined lips land on unfamiliar lips, a foreign, Dean-labeled body pressed along his. She physically shakes her head to clear away the scenario but it still leaves a bitter aftertaste. "But I know Castiel. He's got a huge crush on the guy, whether he's aware of it or not."

"I thought that was not a crime in your book."

And that's a fair point, she has to give Ruby that. Meg's never been a jealous type. At least, she didn't use to be. She was a wild girl, after all; new experiences and fun were all that mattered. When she loved, she loved with passion and loyalty, but possessiveness was not her style.

But then again, she also didn't use to be one to settle down, to build a comfortable life she has no desire to change.

And for the first time in her life, she's really, really fucking scared of losing the man she loves.

She'd never be caught dead admitting that. And to Ruby, of all people.

"You don't have to listen to him going on and on about Dean all day," is all she says, which still isn't a lie. It's that disembodied figure with a life history and apparently more time for Castiel than Meg that she's blaming. It's him she itches to punch or threaten or _something_ just to get him out of Castiel's sight. "There's also this," she adds, putting the ticket stub on the table.

Ruby raises an eyebrow. "Heard the movie's not that good."

"Found this in his pocket. And I know he had two of them."

"He didn't take you?"

"I couldn't go. So who did he take?"

She wasn't gonna make a big deal out of it, she really wasn't. There surely were explanations less paranoid than Castiel taking a bank teller to a rom-com.

But in those last few weeks, Dean stopped feeling like a bank teller Cas had met because of Meg's cowboy boots. His name, his intangible presence has become a permanent fixture in their home. And that makes the ticket stub a big deal.

"Well," Ruby says, after a longer pause, "you know my opinion on honesty and communication in a relationship."

"Uh-huh," Meg hums, not really getting the point. "It—I quote—kills the thrill of it."

"Precisely. So, as hard as it is for me to push the words past my throat, I think you should talk to Castiel," Ruby says, and proceeds to wipe her lips with the top of her palm as if she just spat out something gross and tries to clear her throat with her bubbly soda.

"And there I was thinking we undertood each other without words," Meg half-jokes and lets out a long sigh.

Neither Meg nor Castiel were ever that much into talking about feelings. And it was never a problem; somewhere between the teasing, the awesome fucking and the care they'd offer to each other at their lowest points, they managed to click and it stayed that way. Easy, uncomplicated.

Of course they fought sometimes, but usually there was nothing make up sex wouldn't fix.

Though maybe it was naive to think it would always be this way. Maybe never changing, never growing weighed too much on them. Or never craving to go back to their pasts—because that's what the career change was about, after all, wasn't it.

"Wait—" Meg says, almost choking on a slurp of the cocktail she can't even enjoy. How could she not have thought of this sooner? "I've got a better idea."

"Let's hear it," Ruby encourages.

"I just remembered I'm a private investigator."

"And?"

"And"—a sly smile creeps on her face—"I'm gonna private investigate the shit out of this whole Dean guy." She dramatically drops a couple bills on the table, next to her unfinished cake, before grabbing Ruby's wrist to yank her away. "And I'm gonna need your help."

The bank's about half a mile away, but it feels longer with Ruby being dragged on reluctantly behind her.

"And why can't you go in yourself?" she asks when Meg reveals the details of her genius plan. "It's a public place, easy to make an excuse, too."

"Because if I see him, I might just commit a murder right there and then."

Ruby tips her head in agreement. "Fair."

"Besides, Castiel might have talked about me to—" She pauses, eyes wide, as a spine-chilling thought occurs to her. "What if he didn't talk about me?"

Ruby's eyes narrow. "And that'd be bad because…?"

"That'd mean intent on Castiel's part." Alright, now she might be going a little off rails there. She doesn't need nor want Castiel blabbing about her to just about anyone. But the thing remains—

"And would make _the homewrecker_ the innocent one," Ruby offers as if reading her mind.

Meg snorts. "There's nothing innocent about flirting with the clients. There's gotta be some rule against that, right? Like with a shrink?"

"I doubt that," Ruby says, but Meg ignores her, already sneaking glances through the window into the bank.

It's not an easy feat, catching anything between the posters for loans spread on the glass and the leaves of the succulents standing right behind it. Once Ruby enters the bank, she manages to find a relatively better spot but it puts more distance between her and the fateful desk Ruby's form lead her eyes to, and the angle sucks too. So when the Dean guy undoubtedly grinning widely in Ruby's direction, Meg can only make out the shape of him, his white shirt contrasting with the brown furniture, his short hair and an air of lightness around him. Thought the last part she might be making up.

It takes ten minutes top and a few weird looks cast Meg's way by the passers-by, for Ruby to appear back outside the bank.

"And…?"

"Definitely on the hot side," Ruby decides, then adds, "Not my type, though."

"You know that's the opposite of comforting," Meg musters a tease at whatever the hell Ruby's type even is. "Details, please."

Ruby rolls her eyes. "What, you wanna know if his face fits the golden ratio? Because it probably does."

That was the last possible way any maths teacher's girlfriend would want to have that presented.

"But did he flirt with you?"

"I wouldn't call that flirting." Ruby shrugs. "More like an amped-up service worker flavor of nice. Maybe he's only into guys?"

"Yeah. Or only into my guy."

Ruby shakes her head. "I swear, this job is messing with your head, Meg."

"Maybe so. But the experience's sure gonna be useful."

—

A brand new manila file folder lies spread on the top of the desk. It's waiting to be filled with the world's worst dirts on Meg's newest prick club member. Or not so new. She should have done this weeks ago.

The tip of her pen hovers over the tab. Castiel knows not to snoop around in her stuff, especially her work stuff which, unless otherwise specified by her, is a strictly confidential. Still, better safe than sorry. If Castiel's keen eye landed on a D. Winchester on the file, he wouldn't manage to hold himself back. And him finding out that Meg is stalking his precious Dean could as well be the ultimate worst case scenario.

So, for the lack of a better codename—though her hand itches to write something along 'Asshole #67'—she goes for a classic and renames the Winchester-like-a-rifle to the noble name D. Smith.

She sifts through all of the useless information on Dean that is cluttering her brain and drops the potentially helpful bits on a sheet of paper. The grandma of a car, the prodigy brother and NRA daddy, Michigan.

That's it for the easy part. The rest is in the hands of the almighty Internet. And that little guy, a good hour of searching later, is giving her jack squat.

Literally.

There are a bunch of guys named Dean Winchester out there, sure. But none of them seem to fit what she knows and what she saw of the guy. Unless Dean's secretly seventy-five, which would put her mind at ease and explain a lot of things. Like his taste in music and that he's lived his whole life since the dawn of mass communication under the rock or doesn't believe in social media. Just her luck, isn't it?

Other options are that Dean's a serial killer or a matrimonial con artist. Or an ex mob member in witness protection—practicing his made up background on unsuspecting Castiel. What else could justify not even having a long abandoned Facebook page?

Meg rubs her eyes with her fists. This is a dead end. Unless _nothing _is what she'd aimed to find. But it's not. _Nothing _won't let her sleep better at night, nor help her put Castiel off the guy.

Meg glances at the clock. Ten to five. Castiel should have been home an hour ago.

But sure, Meg's paranoid.

She drops the history's thinnest file into the drawer and grabs her car keys from the shelf. Even if the best she can get is Castiel's tangled explanations for what he could possibly be doing in the bank for the twentieth time this month, she'll take it.

—

It's a five minute drive to the bank and Meg makes it in three. She rolls slowly into the parking lot, eyes sliding over the cars in search of Castiel's golden Continental. But it's not there. It's not in the line of cars parked along the road, either.

But there is another car there that stands out to Meg, even though she's never seen it before. A finely shaped muscle car, its black paint shining in the afternoon sun. Now, Meg might not be an expert in old cars, but something tells her this particular lady is one '67 Chevrolet Impala.

She hesitates, her foot hovering over the gas pedal. She should drive home, wait for Castiel to return, ask what the holdup was. He sure would be back soon, maybe he is home already if he took the long way around when she took a shortcut. But there's something in her that won't let it go. A little voice in her head, something she'd love to call a detective intuition.

She drives into the nearest empty parking space, turns off the engine and waits.

It doesn't take long before the sharp-clothed employees begin to pour out of the door. She spots her mark right away: short brown hair, a poorly matching leather jacket thrown over a dress code white shirt. He exchanges a few words with another guy, then turns straight to his black car. Gotcha.

She's gotta be careful, patient. She lets him start up and drive off a few blocks before following him. The rumble of his engine she could probably trace from a mile away. She keeps her distance, a steady number of cars between them as he drives down the main road, until he slides off into a byway.

The Impala's engine shuts down on one of the driveways. Meg passes by, as Dean half-runs across the lawn, hands in his pockets. The neighborhood's design is not the most stakeout-friendly, but she's got some experience. A little more inconspicuous driving around and she manages to settle on a nicely shaded spot with a decent view of the guy's front door.

Now she only needs to sit and wait for Dean's next move, her trusty camera waiting at hand, ready to snap any indecency the guy'll be down to tonight.

An hour later, she wishes she'd prepared better for her impromptu stakeout. Half a pack of semi-stale crackers hardly do anything for her empty stomach. A lack of any sort of move on Dean's part is beginning to piss her off—does he really think she's got all day for—for this? Whatever _this _is 'cause it's definitely not stalking when she's a PI.

It's probably the early hour. She could go home and come back later, now that she knows where the guy lives.

Or she could use the fact she's not home right now. If the Impala isn't leaving the driveway any time soon, maybe a different car could join it up there. A certain golden classic. One that would rip her fucking heart out and wheel over it for good measure.

With one eye on the house, she pulls out her phone. She can hardly stop her palm from shaking as she types up a quick message to Castiel.

_On a stakeout, won't be home 'til night._

Her thumb hovers over send but she can't make herself tap it.

What the fuck kind of ambush is she trying to pull right now? Because it only feels like she's setting herself up for a lose-lose situation. And what she'd be losing is the one whose loss she couldn't stand. It's melodramatic and it's not like her, but the very thought of living on without her Clarence is like another drop of cement drowning her lungs.

That must be why she's been so on edge, why she's freakin' losing her noodles, sitting in front of some guy's house like some sort of creep, waiting for—something, any kind of proof that Dean is a villain, not just a charming bank teller who gives Castiel more attention than she's been giving him lately.

Must be why she's turning to the bad guy, crossing every line.

Or maybe Ruby was right and the job is messing with her head.

She needs some distance. And more importantly, right now, she needs to feel Castiel's arms wrapped around her, needs to know that it's not too late yet, that it's gonna be okay.

She lets out a long, shaky breath, drops the phone and starts up her car. She can't wait to be home.

—

She doesn't want to fall asleep. She wants to stay like this for hours. Even if the morning sun rises and catches her awake in Castiel's embrace, warm and safe and savoring every second of it. She's got his body against hers, the even rise and fall of his chest, where her head's resting; the rhythm of his breathing dictating her own.

It's perfect and she doesn't want it to end.

It's perfect—but for the guilt she's been feeling and managed to silence but not kill. She hasn't told Castiel what she did today. How could she? He wouldn't look at her the same way.

She hasn't told him what she's felt lately, either.

She only came home and slipped back into the comfort of each other's presence. With Castiel, it's so easy to just be. And she forgot how easy it is to give him all of her attention, to listen to him go on and on about his high school teacher life and about the chunkiest cat he saw on his way and to only bite her tongue when inevitably a certain guy's cat allergy came up.

And when the evening came, she slipped back into his arms and let herself forget all her worries, all of the jealousy and obsession that had taken over her.

She let herself feel like she used to feel.

When the rhythm of Castiel's breathing breaks and his mouth pours out some inaudible sounds, Meg can't hold back a smile. She lifts her head to look up to his face, waits for the sounds to form words and—

"Dean…"

Meg's heart stops. She must have heard that wrong. Not now, not tonight. Not in his sleep, too. He couldn't just called out to—

"You're doing great, Dean."

Hot tears form in Meg's eyes. Even one of her favorite moments, her tiny, precious pleasure, Dean ruined.

And there's nothing Meg can do. In her helpless fury, she grabs her pillow and throws it at Castiel's head just to shut him up, to not let that name slip from his tongue again.

At the very edge of the bed, she curls herself up, her back turned to Castiel. She'd rather run, she'd rather hide herself in the bathroom and go for a drive around town with her vision blurred and angry sobs drowning out the music. But she doesn't want questions, she doesn't want Castiel's big blue eyes looking at her, all innocent and ask what's wrong when she's trying not to scream in frustration.

So she stays and pretends she's asleep, with her arm under her head where the pillow used to be, forcing her breathing to steady.

"Meg? What happened?" comes Castiel's hushed concern.

But her ruse works and he doesn't ask her further questions, assuming she's asleep. And apparently, assuming she threw the pillow in her sleep—she plays limp when Castiel lifts her head as gently as possible and puts the pillow underneath it.

He's back in his sweet, Deanful dreams minutes later. Meg doesn't get a minute of sleep tonight, listening for every change in Castiel's breathing, waiting, fearing the name slipping out again. But it doesn't come.

—

Meg closes her eyes when Castiel shuts off his alarm and crawls out of bed with a groan. She doesn't move until the roar of his car dies in the distance. The spite fuels her to get up and act when the empty bed seems suddenly so welcoming.

The long, sleepless hours gave her a lot of time to cool down somewhat. They also gave her an idea for a more direct line of action. An hour later, she's all dressed up and ready. A woman on a mission, buzzed on caffeine that is masking the drowsiness just fine for now.

She puts on her cursed cowboy boots, just for the sake of irony, and rehearses her speech all the way to the bank, to the tune of an old country song. It goes along the lines, "You better get the fuck away from my man, or I'll kick your ass—oh, Dean."

She doesn't bother with the parking lot this time. She parks along the road, near the door to the bank. Right behind the black Impala, parked right where it was yesterday.

With a cheerful face plastered on and a stride of a mercenary about to end a man, Meg marches into the bank and nearly smashes into a smiling, older woman passing her on her way out. This early, the bank's nearly empty but for a couple of clients talking to some redhead.

She spots Dean in an instant, though he's turned away from her, swaying to the sides in his spinning chair and chatting with another employee. She straightens her jacket and takes a deep breath. It's now or never.

"Hi," she says, strutting up to his desk.

The guy spins toward her and—

Holy fuck, he is pretty.

His face looks like it is sculpted by the very Michelangelo or some poetic shit. There's an aftertaste of a genuine smile from the moment before in the crow's feet around his eyes that nearly sparkle, grassy green, in the rays of sunlight. Despite his clothes all being up to the dress code and a polite, professional demeanor, there's something of a bad boy attitude piercing through. Something she'd be attracted as hell to, were the circumstances any different.

"Hi, how can I help you?" the guy asks, his voice low.

Standing there and staring at her nemesis like an idiot is the last thing Meg needs. She blinks to snap out of it and musters out, "You're Dean Winchester." It's not even a question. Who else could get Castiel so smitten?

"As far as I know," Dean says with a lopsided smile. "And you are…?"

Before Meg gets to answer, a voice cuts in.

"Dean, I almost forgot—" It's the older lady whom Meg almost ran into when entering the bank. She gives a quick apology to Meg, for interrupting, then continues, "Could you drop by today, take a look at my sink? It's leaking again. I'll make you your favorite apple pie!" she adds as an incentive, with a classic old lady sing-song voice.

To that, a huge smile blooms on Dean's face. "You got it, Mildred," he says with an honest to god wink. And finger guns. "You know I can never say no to your apple pie."

Meg got that all wrong. Dean's not a bad boy. He's a freakin' dork.

"Are you like this with everyone?" The words roll out of her mouth without her thinking them through.

"Like what?" Dean asks with innocence that gives way to confusion. "Sorry—do I know you?"

"No, you don't. But you know Castiel. My boyfriend," she adds with an extra emphasis on both words.

"Oh, Meg, right?" Dean says with…enthusiasm. "Heard a lot about you."

She's not sure what reaction she expected. A denial? An instant defensiveness? Or a surprise that Castiel's got a girlfriend. She did not expect enthusiasm.

Well, now it's Meg that's surprised. Still, she raises a skeptical eyebrow. "Really?"

"Yeah!" Dean leans forward over his desk, his fingers playing with a pen. "Cas said you're a private eye. That's badass."

Meg would really, really prefer if Dean was an asshole she's taken him for, all this time, instead of looking at her with almost a sort of admiration, for her job, at least.

But this has gotta be a trick. He must be using the same sweet talk he used to worm his way into Castiel's heart to stay out of trouble with her. But she's not gonna fall for it that easily.

"So you knew _Cas_ had a girlfriend and you still—"

"Still what?"

Amusement mixes with confusion on Dean's face. At the other desk, the redhead lets out a muffled chuckle. She's been trying really hard not to look like she's eavesdropping ever since her clients left the bank. Meg shoots her a quick glare then comes back to the main culprit.

"Listen, dude—" With her palms on Dean's desk, she shifts her weight to appear as menacing as her five feet five in heels lets her. "I'll put it as concisely as possible: hands off my man."

That wipes the smile off Dean's face. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

"Alright, cool it, Dolly Parton. I see what's going on. Truth is, Cas is hot. So I might have tried turning up my charm for him. And then I had to be more blatant with him because, wow, is that guy oblivious."

Meg can't hold back a smile but she doesn't dare interrupt Dean's story now.

"But he straight up said he's got a girlfriend and he's not up for that, so I backed off. I'm not into taken folks." He shrugs and adds, "At least those in an exclusive type of deal."

"And that's all?" Meg says, doubt thick in her voice.

"That's all, cross my heart." He gestures theatrically. "You know, rejection hurt but now"—he seizes her up and down, a playful smirk back on his face—"I see his point."

Meg rolls her eyes but she can feel her cheeks burning. Maybe the story would check out if it wasn't for one major detail.

"But he keeps coming back here."

"You know two guys can be friends, right?"

Meg's not amused by that, so Dean continues.

"I explained to him that the ATM is perfectly safe for withdrawing money at least twice, but he kept insisting he doesn't trust machines. I'd blame it on my magnetic personality," he adds with a cocky smile, and that wink again.

Still, there's something about the guy that makes her want to believe him. It might be the halo effect—because of that smile, because of that face and the spatter of freckles across it she can now see, up close. Or it might just be because she's tired and she wants to believe him and believe that they're fine, that Castiel will get over his silly crush.

So she capitulates, and stuffs her wounded pride to say, "Fine," and begin to walk away.

"Seriously, go talk to Cas," Dean says, quieter. "I am not your Jolene."

—

The sound of the door opening stirs Meg awake. The sleepless night had taken its toll and she must have nodded off on the couch, sometime between overanalysing Dean's every word and every gesture and stringing up her own speech for Castiel.

And now, Castiel's here. And it has to be today, she has to bite the bullet and talk to him, at last. She should have done it a long time ago.

"Hey, you're home," Castiel says from the threshold. "Thought you had to work?"

"I did," Meg mutters, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, "but I passed the work on to this new kid."

"So you're no longer the newbie? Congrats," Castiel half jokes, planting a kiss on Meg's temple. "Glad you got some rest."

"Actually, I had quite an eventful day."

"Yeah?"

"Uh-huh," is all she says. She's not gonna elaborate on that, though. Not yet. She can't tell the story from the end. "And how about you? Did you go to the bank today?"

Castiel doesn't even pass her a glance as he moves toward the kitchen. "No, I had no business there."

That is a relief. Even if Dean's the good guy, who knows what he could tell Cas about her little visit, even as a joke. Or especially as one. If she's gonna do this, she has to have the upper hand in this one.

"Should I order pizza?" Castiel says, coming back from the kitchen, where he must have done a thorough check of the oven and the fridge and come up with no dinner.

"Good idea."

She watches Castiel plop down on the couch next to her and pull out his phone, but she can't let him dial because that's just more stalling and a chance of one of them ending up saved by the bell later on.

"We need to talk about Dean."

It doesn't result in a stumbling reaction she expected. Castiel doesn't even lift his eyes off the screen when he says, "What about Dean?"

Meg reaches for his phone and takes it from his hand to properly gain his attention. And once his eyes are on hers, she says, simply, "Dean's hot."

Now, there it is. Everted eyes, fumbling, blush climbing up his cheeks.

"Wha—Pff, I didn't notice," Castiel mumbles, scratching the back of his neck.

A few weeks ago, Meg would have burst out laughing at that. Now, she only rolls her eyes.

"He is hot," she repeats. "And nice and funny and charming. And you have a huge crush on him." How she is managing to stay this level-headed, she doesn't know. Or—maybe she does and she should add 'more emotionally intelligent than her' to the list of things that are great about Dean.

"Meg, I don't—It's not like that." He's looking miserable, and maybe Meg could take it easy on him, but she's earned the right to see him sweat a little after everything. "I just like him."

"And you know all the details from his childhood, what he does and doesn't like and his freakin' allergies, huh?" she says, a little harsher.

"Not all the details," Cas corrects her and, at last, looks her in the eyes, again. "I didn't cheat on you, Meg. I wouldn't."

"I know," she says with fake confidence. "Well, I had my doubts."

"Meg—" Castiel starts and cuts off as Meg gets off the couch and walks over to her desk.

She pulls out a file folder from the drawer. The file folder.

If only inside she was as composed as she seems outside. But she'll take the very fact her hands aren't trembling as a win.

"Just—promise you _will_ laugh at this?" she tries, as she hands Castiel the file.

"D. Smith?" Castiel reads with confusion and opens the folder.

"I was jealous," Meg admits, as Castiel's eyes slide over the few lines scribbled on the sole piece of paper. "You kept going on and on about him. And then we fought and you still talked about Dean and I just felt… insecure. And I—" She swallows heavily. She can still turn back, one omission can't hurt, after all. But she keeps pushing forward. "I might have followed him once to...well, I don't even know why. Maybe I thought you'd be there. Or maybe I thought I could show you he's a bad guy. But he's not."

She spits that all out, as Castiel, calmly, lifts up the page and turns it around to make sure he didn't miss anything—there's a joke about Meg being a terrible PI there somewhere. Finally, he closes the folder and slides his palm across his mouth, pensively.

Then he turns to Meg, something heavy in his sad eyes.

"I had no idea I was doing this to you," he says, at last. "I wish you'd told me sooner."

"Yeah, me too. But I didn't wanna sound paranoid. Until"—she cocks her head to the side—"you know."

"He's just so easy to talk to. And, well, nice to look at, too, I'll admit. And I liked the attention. You were always busy or out so I kept coming up with excuses to see him. I even told him"—Castiel covers his eyes in embarrassment and lets out a chuckle—"that I don't trust ATMs."

"And then he asked you out," Meg prompts him.

"And then he asked me out but didn't push when I said 'no'."

"'Cause you have a girlfriend."

"Of course it was 'cause I have a girlfriend."

Meg bites her lip. There's this thought that has been on her mind since she came back from the bank. Or maybe even before then, when she first laid eyes on Dean's divinely pretty perfect face. "And if you didn't?"

"But I do," Castiel says, right away, eyes narrowed in surprise.

"Amuse me. If I wasn't an obstacle, so to speak, would you go out with him?"

Castiel watches her face carefully, as if trying to read the correct answer from it. "I"—he starts, slowly—"think I would. But only if—"

"Okay," Meg cuts him off and smiles with a note of satisfaction.

"Wait—What's on your mind right now? You talked to Dean today, didn't you?"

"How else would I know his face probably fits the golden ratio?"

"And you want me to…never go to see him again, right?"

Meg licks her lips. "Nah," she mutters with a mysterious smile. "I've got a better idea."

—

The dark green, knee-long dress matches Meg's boots perfectly. Her black hair, curled and styled, bounce around her face. Her make up's more pronounced than she tends to wear it. She hasn't felt this fancy in months. Frankly, it's a crime that this is what it took for Castiel to take her out to a proper date and she doesn't plan to let him live that down.

Or maybe she will, because when Castiel walks into the room, everything's forgiven. The slacks, the dark blue shirt, the black vest—they're really doing things to Meg.

"You clean up nice, Clarence," she says, sizing him up to savor the view.

"I was never dirty to begin with," Castiel replies without pause, in his deadpan tone.

She walks up to him, her finger teasing, pulling at the buttons of his vest. "Do you wanna be dirty?" she purrs.

Castiel grins and leans in for a long, passionate kiss. His hand caresses her neck, careful not to ruin her hair. The other hand is wrinkling her dress around her butt.

"I'd be down for skipping the date and staying here," Castiel murmurs against her lips.

Meg closes her eyes and gently pushes Castiel away. "Well, wouldn't that be rude, Cas?" she says, raising an eyebrow.

Castiel lets out a soft grunt but doesn't get to say anything before the doorbell rings. Meg grabs Castiel's hand and leads him to the door.

"Hi, you two," Dean says, grinning at them, as soon as the door opens. His eyes shine, highlighted by his aubergine shirt and he looks so fucking good.

He hands Meg a small bouquet of flowers, then offers an arm to each of them. Meg looks up at Castiel, who looks like he's about to be taken to cloud nine. Just a week ago, she'd never guess things were gonna end this way. She wouldn't guess she'd be taking Dean, the annoying, ever-present Dean, on an arm, and letting him lead her and her beloved Castiel to his '67 Chevy Impala.

But right now, with the warm feeling bubbling inside her chest and a wide smile on her face, one she can't contain, she knows she made a good call.

And this is sure gonna be fun.


End file.
